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She couldn’t help but feel nervous before her husband-to-be came to her. Walda had been urged to make herself available to Lord Bolton by her Lord Grandfather, and she was eager to please him, grateful for the opportunity to finally leave the Twins behind and become a lady, a wife, a woman. So she had approached Lord Roose that evening after supper, hiding her trembling hands in the pockets of her gown, and with a smile, had curtsied to him as gracefully as she could. He’d kissed her cheek courteously, although there was no fire, no passion.
That disappointed Walda. She wanted romance, like the songs and the stories. And, when she admitted it to herself, she wanted to do the kind of things that Ami did. She thought of her older sister then, sharing the most scandalous exploits with Walda late at night, when Father and Mother and the little ones were abed. They whispered and stifled giggles with their hands, both at Ami’s daring and the stupidity of her paramours. And when Ami finally retired to her rooms, Walda slid her hands between her thighs and imagined that she had done all of those naughty things, fucking stable boys in horse stalls, the straw prickling her thighs and back, grabbing her cousin’s cock through his breeches under the dinner table and stroking him until he marred his fine velvets with the evidence of his arousal, climbing up the walls, hands scraped and mossy, to sneak into her bedroom after getting up to gods-know-what.
So she smiled courteously when Lord Roose brushed his lips against her, allowing him to kiss her mouth as well, but that was just as chaste, just as courteous. And courteous he had been, despite his motives and the bag of silver stars that gleamed under his bed. She knew full well why he’d picked her, and her father’s hateful words still rang in her ears. A sow in silks, he’d scoffed, and then had gone on to disparage Roose Bolton’s manhood until Mother had shushed him, fearful that their new liege lord would overhear, terrified that he’d change his mind and make them even more the laughing stock of the Twins. Walda had cried at that, though no one knew, but she did not trouble herself, knowing that once she was Lady Bolton, she would not need to bother with her drunken father and his cruel remarks.
“Lady Walda,” he said, his voice hushed. She liked how softly he said her name, liked the sharp way that he looked at her, his pale eyes appraising her, his bride. Although he was well past forty, there was something about the stillness of his features, the hidden menace in every mannered gesture, and her knowledge of his darker practices, that thrilled her, almost against her own common sense. Walda knew what a flaying knife was, but the hand that rested on her shoulder was gentle, and she did not much care what happened in distant dungeons.
“My Lord,” she ventured, her voice breathier than she would have liked. She leaned closer, and now it was her turn to show affection. As she leaned in to kiss his cheek in turn, Walda risked it, and instead whispered, “Would you have me come to you tonight?”
And when she pulled back, her round little cheeks flushed with the effort of her daring, she was met with a grudging approval from her promised. Roose Bolton looked as though he might smile, although he did not, and just as quietly, just as subtly, he nodded and replied. “Later,” he said, Walda smiling at his words, “when they’re all asleep.” He looked over her shoulder at her family, and then turned back to face her. “I look forward to it.”
Walda flushed then, her face reddening, hoping that her parents, her sisters and brother, did not notice the riotous blush that spread across her pleased features. “Oh!” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth, and then when she had control of her facilities, continued. “As do I, my lord.”
*
She stole to Lord Roose’s rooms wrapped carefully in her new bedgown, holding the edge so that she did not stumble, fumbling in the dark without benefit of a candle. For a moment, Walda feared that she would bump into Ami, if her moonlight excursions were as frequent as she claimed, but soon realized that her older sister would likely approve, or at the very worst, be amused by Walda’s forthright attitude.
No harm in lying with him, she told herself, and the words sounded as though they were spoken in Ami’s voice, inside of her head. You’d try out a horse, would you not? Best to try out your husband! And Walda stifled a giggle as she stood outside of Lord Roose’s chambers, the finest guest room in the Twins. When she scratched at the door, her Lord of Bolton cracked it, and pulled her quickly inside.
“Sit,” he said, his voice just as soft as it had been earlier in the Great Hall. Now that they were alone, she could hear clearly, could appreciate the small subtleties of his person, how he looked so directly at her, eyes burning into hers, even though his expression was slightly neutral and more than a bit indulgent. She took notice of the two-handed sword leaning against the wall, buffed to a shine by some unfortunate squire, but deadly and well-used nonetheless in its muted brilliance. She studied the way that Lord Roose stilled himself, how he waited for her to react, how quietly he sat on the edge of the bed, clad in a pale pink dressing gown. On any other lord would have been unmanly, but she had to admit that pink, her favorite color, suited him quite well.
So she obeyed with heart in her throat, hands still concealed in her pockets to hide their slight trembling. Although he had been kind to her thus far, Walda still feared that she would spoil it all with some unintended blunder, or that her ample body would repulse him, make him regret his flippant choice, even though at the time, she’d found it so amusing. Then again, her blood had been full of sugared wine, and now that she was dry and sober, and alone with Roose Bolton, things were a different matter.
His hands slowly pulled to the ribbon of her dressing gown, also pink, a darker, rosy shade, and Walda’s heart was in her throat. Roose Bolton noticed the crease of worry that marred her expression, and slid the garment off of her shoulders, his hands sliding forward to cup her breasts, unbound. “Do not trouble yourself, Lady Walda,” he said then, his fingers squeezing her slightly, “I do not intend to harm my lady wife.”
She bit her lip, but pressed on. “But I am not yet your lady wife,” she said lightly, masking her trepidation with a giggle. “I am merely a maid of the Twins.”
“But you are mine,” he replied, silencing her protests, and bending to kiss her, this time on the mouth. Walda had experimented on her distant cousins before, finding the experience rather distasteful, long on saliva and short on expertise, but this was quite different. Lord Roose was much more direct, penetrating her mouth, now wiling, with his tongue, going deeper as Walda’s breath quickened, his hands still on her body, thumbs teasing at her nipples which peaked and ached from the sensation, the pressure from his touch maddening through the delicate fabric of her bedgown. She did not protest when he drew her closer, did not stop him as he drew her onto his lap, and while she feared that she would be too heavy for such things, that her fiancé would protest, or jape about it, all she received for her anxiety was a slight smile, and hands, not cold as she’d imagined, but rather warm and roughened with duty, sliding from her breasts to her belly, brushing its rounded contour as they lightened on her thighs, plunging up her skirts, gripping her, digging into her.
Walda let out a little cry at that and did not quiet when his hands found their aim, sliding beneath the smallclothes that she’d foolishly worn, and touching her where she’d only before touched herself. Little cries became louder cries as he slowly slid a finger into her, and as his thumb granted her a different, more intense pleasure as it pressed into her most secret place. Her eyes met Roose Bolton’s then, and she was taken aback by the way that he stared at her, almost predatorily, and while a cold shiver went though her, she realized that it was not fear, but arousal, that caused her breath to quicken, and her pulse to lurch so alarmingly.
“Do you like that, Lady Walda?” he whispered. She could not speak, but only nodded, bobbing her head up and down enthusiastically, knowing how foolish that she looked, but not giving a damn, for all that she could think about were his hands and what they were doing, and the way that the muscles in her thighs and in her belly clenched and unclenched. As the rhythm built in intensity, as she thought that she’d faint from it all, her hands found Roose’s shoulders, and she gripped them, nails snagging the fine fabric of his bedgown, and as her body began to betray what little control she had, as she began to shake with the feeling that spread through her, a marvelous warmth that began between her thighs and radiated outward, she threw back her head, hair falling out of the carefully entwined coronet that she’d fashioned, and moaned her paramour’s name at the top of her lungs.
She slid off of his lap and lied on her back, chest heaving, eyes closed, and as the warmth ebbed from her, she was soon able to regain a semblance of control, realizing that her skirts were bunched around her waist, that she was half-naked, and she didn’t give a damn. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to cast off the rumpled bedgown, and so she did, baring herself completely, flinging the nightdress to the floor.
“Oh,” she said then, abruptly, “what did you do to me?”
Lord Roose laughed then, a soft chuckle that frankly disarmed her. It was odd to hear laughter from this strange, serious man, but it also pleased her. I made him laugh, she thought with a small smile, and even Lord Grandfather can’t do that, and he’s Lord of the Crossing. Walda had to admit that she was pleased with herself for that, at least.
He did not answer her, but slipped off his robe and lay beside her, his head bent, mouth closing on a breast, teeth nipping just enough to slightly pain her. She paid it no mind, and eagerly reached for him, wanting to explore a man’s body, to touch and stroke and please, and her hands traced his shoulders, fingers trailing down to squeeze the muscles in his arms.
Arms that have swung swords, cut down men on the field, she thought in the back of her mind, linking her fingers with his, bringing his hands to her body, to clutch at her breasts, to grasp her soft belly, to hook into her waist and pull her against him. Hands that have killed men in dark chambers, wielded knives that peeled skin from meat and bone, she thought, but brushed that aside as well, for these hands were gentle when they touched her, and when they weren’t gentle, they were willing, and that pleased her more than she could say.
She looked at Roose Bolton then, in the half-light, observing the paleness of his skin, here and there scarred pink from the leeches that he so prized, noting how slim yet well-muscled his body was, and staring unabashedly at his manhood, something she’d never really seen before, but something that Ami had waxed rhapsodically about many a time. And Walda knew that it was unbecoming a lady of a great lord to even think it, but all she wanted at the present moment was to feel it inside of her, and to cast off the pointless maidenhood that she hadn’t ever really thought to lose.
Roose’s hands stroked her body, fingers pressing into the softness of her waist. “You’re so plump,” he murmured, breath hot against her ear, his cheek grazing hers.
Walda smiled then. “Fat enough to be worth that silver purse Lord Grandfather gave you?” Her words were light, and rewarded her with another of his odd dry laughs.
“Enough of that now,” he said, kissing her again in that insistent way of his, so unprecedented by his politic exterior. She could feel his manhood (No, she thought, shuddering at her girlish words, Ami called it a cock.) against her thigh, then against her belly, and she could also feel how hard it was. When she reached for it, almost without knowing what she was doing, her lord stilled her hands.
“Are you a maid, then?”
She nodded. “I know that it will pain the first time. But no matter.” Walda’s lips curved with anticipation, with affection.
“Do you know how it’s done?”
So efficient, Walda thought then, her fingers running along Roose’s cheek, tracing the line of the bone, tentatively reaching to stroke his hair. Practical. “Yes, my lord. I do. My sister told me.”
“Very well then.” He straddled her body, hands taking hold of her shoulders to position her. Walda relaxed on her back, allowing her legs to loll apart, impatiently waiting as his hands toyed with her, as though he were examining her. She wanted this man, and she wanted him badly, and he was taking his damned time about things.
“My lord,” she said then, her voice sweet.
“Yes, Walda?” he replied.
“Take me. Make me yours,” she said then, grabbing him, pulling him down onto her, and when he regained his balance, instead of being angry, Roose looked quite pleased with her.
Walda did not cry out when he first entered her, but as he thrust against her, breaching her over again, she whimpered. It did hurt, but it was lovely too, and that was more than enough to make up for the soreness between her legs and the ache in the muscles of her inner thighs as she spread them further and further apart, allowing her lord to penetrate her deeper.
“Oh Roose,” she moaned then, unable to stop herself. “Oh Roose.” Walda closed her eyes, head lolling back. “Fill me up.”
He didn’t answer, but she was pleased at the flush that had spread from his face to his neck and chest, and thrilled to the rough way that he gripped her, nails digging into her upper arms.
“Fill me up with your big hard cock,” she gasped. If she was not so short of breath, she would have giggled at Ami’s words coming from her own mouth. “Harder. Harder. Please.”
And he obliged her, thrusting against the yielding softness of her body. Although it did not feel as pleasant as what he’d done earlier, she still enjoyed it, and voiced her enthusiasm, crying out each time that he thrust against her, losing control of herself in the moment, and shrieking with delight as they coupled, as he spent his seed inside of her. And when Roose dropped to the bed beside her, she clutched at him, kissing him again and again, her teeth now daring to find purchase on his lower lip, his chin.
“Walda,” he whispered, and she almost trembled to hear him speak her name. “Walda.” She nuzzled against his chest, her hot cheeks pressing against his cooling skin. “What a filthy little mouth my Walda has.”
“It’s not so bad as it could be, my lord,” she murmured, relaxing against him as Roose wrapped her body in his arms. “My sister’s is far worse.”
He did not reply to that, but she felt his hands in her hair, and his lips on hers, and she didn’t worry about being a lady any longer. Or being Merrett’s fat ungainly daughter. Or the silver. Mine now, she thought with a wicked grin. Just like my Lord of Bolton is.
“My lord,” she said, breaking the silence, and waking Roose, who had drifted half to sleep during her reverie. “Shall I stay?”
“Yes,” he said, in a hushed tone that still bore the edge of authority. “You will spend the night. And the rest of the nights hereafter.” Roose kissed her forehead then. “I am very pleased with you.”
A sweet flush spread across her cheeks then, not for the first time that evening. And the pain had not been that bad. She still felt an ache inside of her, but it was pleasant, and almost comforting
“I’m so glad,” Walda said, kissing his cheek. “So very glad.” And she allowed herself to relax in his arms, warm next to her soon-to-be husband’s naked form, buried under a mountain of furs, and fell asleep, sated, satisfied, exhausted